


Philosophy and Prophecy

by Tarlan



Category: Chronicles of Riddick (2004), Chronicles of Riddick Series
Genre: Character Study, Community: smallfandomfest, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-26
Updated: 2009-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlan/pseuds/Tarlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the years he'd had several knives and shivs; well-balanced blades, sharp as a razor, and each had been a favorite in its time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Philosophy and Prophecy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SmallFandomFest FEST04 - prompt: Blade.

Standing in the darkness of the basilica, it was easy to fall into the melancholy air of dark and shadows; easy to let his eyes drift over the tortured and twisted statues and fill his thoughts with similar torment.

The Necromonger philosophy was to keep what you kill but slam had taught him a different lesson, to not grow too attached to anything or any person because there was no guarantee you'd keep them for even a day, let alone forever.

He pulled the ornate knife from its sheath and studied the fine workmanship, spinning it on his hand while compensating for the slight lack of balance between hilt and blade. In his mind's eye, he replayed the death of Irgun; pulling this blade from back and avenging the Imam with it, finishing a job that another had started. This same blade had played a vital role in both his first meeting and final confrontation with a 'holy half-dead', burying this blade deep in the Lord Marshall's skull. Over the years he'd had several knives and shivs; well-balanced blades, sharp as a razor, and each had been a favorite in its time. All of them lost one by one to whatever event overtook him. Some he left buried to the hilt in whatever lowlife had tried to take him on; others were taken from him by bounty hunters like Johns and Toombs, locked or thrown away. Sometimes he got them back, mostly he just found himself another well-balanced blade or made use of whatever he could turn into a weapon.

He'd learned that anything could be a weapon, even words and people, yet fear was the greatest weapon of them all.

He'd always held people at arms' length, not allowing them to get too close. People were harder to handle since a crash onto a dark world full of monsters of the non-human variety. Before that crash, people were obstacles or a means to an end. They were worth only what they could give him in return, or they were enemy, looking to take what they wanted from him; his clothes, his weapons, his body, or his life. Those he called dead meat, sparing no mercy as he knew they would spare none for him. Fry taught him to give a damn by dying for him, and five years alone on an ice planet with only his own thoughts for company had not dimmed the supernova of revelation that had exploded into his solitary darkness at her sacrifice.

He'd taken two people off that planet in her name, and spent five years in solitary to protect them until the Imam betrayed him to Toombs, though perhaps betrayal was too strong a word. Philosophy and prophecy had guided the Imam's hand, and Riddick couldn't deny they had played their part in bringing him to this time and place. He'd had dreams of a warrior woman standing in a mass graveyard for most of his life. Over the years his mind had fine-tuned the dream until finally, he heard the words her mouth had shaped, and felt the rage of a slaughtered world, of Furya.

The death of the Imam merely fanned the flames for vengeance, setting him on a path that some meddling Elemental had prophesied before his birth. Here he had found his destiny, or his birthright, and now he had to choose what to do with it.

Lord Marshall of the Necromongers; head of a vast army seeking the annihilation of all human life so they could fulfill their prophesy and find a better life beyond some threshold. An army whose faith dictated that they kill all non-believers, that they fight to the death if necessary. Out of curiosity, he had undergone their ritual of pain and it had not changed him for it had been nothing to the pain he had survived all his life. Release from the pain-inducing machine had offered him no solace from the pain he had carried inside from childhood, for the rage built into his DNA by a billion screaming, tormented souls.

A swish of air and the glint of light off metal pushed against his senses only moments before he felt the cold steel against his throat. The blade remained motionless in a steady hand as the wielder leaned in, the warmth of his body radiating across Riddick's back, the heat of his breath fanning against the Riddick's throat. A soft, deep voice whispered into his ear.

"Many would see this as a sign of weakness. Many would desire the slice of my blade across your throat."

Riddick hummed, his larynx vibrating from the noncommittal sound as he reached up to wrap his hand gently around the strong wrist holding the blade. His thumb stroked across the pulse point and he waited until the hand relaxed, drawing the blade further from his throat before he turned his head, breathing in deep the scent of the man standing behind him.

"The metal in your braids clink when you move, like wind chimes."

Vaako smiled against Riddick's neck. "I'm not the only one with braided hair."

Riddick turned in Vaako's arms until they were facing each other, the blade now at his back, never intimidated by Vaako's greater height. He smiled as Vaako leaned down while Riddick raised his chin, bringing his cheek against Vaako's. He hummed again.

"Saw your reflection once you drew close enough."

"I've already tried to kill one Lord Marshall," Vaako stated softly, ominously, letting the implication lie heavy between them, that what had been attempted once for power could prove too great a temptation again one day.

"I know."

Vaako pulled back and stared hard into Riddick's eyes; partly surprised and partly awed by the revelation hidden beneath two simple words. Almost with reverence, Vaako leaned in and kissed him, his soft, full lips brushing over Riddick's, setting them tingling with desire for more. Riddick smiled into the kiss, letting it deepen as the flat of the blade pressed against his back. Eventually surfacing from the kiss, breathing fast and with his pulse erratic, Riddick drew his lover from the basilica, through shadowed corridors to the majestic room that Riddick had taken as his own as Lord Marshall. With the door sealed, he let down his guard once more as Vaako's blade clattered to the floor, reaching for fastenings so he could divest both of them of unnecessary clothing.

Stripped and naked, and lying sprawled across the wide bed, Vaako's pale skin shone like alabaster in the pale silvery light of the darkened room.

"Beautiful," Riddick murmured before moving into the open arms, pressing his body along the length of his lover's warm flesh. Carefully, he thrust against the firmness of a muscular body as they kissed; Vaako's answering hardness trapped between them, bodies becoming slick with the sweat of exertion as they reached a slow, soul-numbing climax. Their release blended between their muscular bellies, its pungency spicing the air as they gasped into each other's mouth, swallowing each other's cry of pleasure.

Afterwards, it was easy to lie back with Vaako half-sprawled over his chest, and caress his lover's soft skin from shoulder blade to the curve of his fine ass.

Perhaps the day would come when Vaako would slice the blade across his throat. If it did then Riddick would offer no resistance for, on that day, it would mean he had lost his only reason to go on; he would have lost Vaako's love, faith and trust. He smiled again, feeling philosophical about his potential demise, and wondered silently if Aereon had a prophecy for his last day, and if he would hold onto Vaako Until UnderVerse Come.

END


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